


Kind Words Can Hurt the Most

by 44TayLo



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Angst, Brian Banner's A+ Parenting, Bruce Banner Has Issues, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Self-Harm, Some Mystery Science Theater 3000 because I'm a nerd, allusions to Greek myths because I'm pretentious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 07:51:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10635495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/44TayLo/pseuds/44TayLo
Summary: “As soon as they sat down, Tony dove right in. ‘I’m worried that you have an eating disorder,’ he stated matter-of-factly and without any hesitation lingering about his countenance.Bruce blinked, dumbfounded, before that shock was quickly overtaken by confusion and hurt. He gently extracted his hand from Tony’s grip so he could massage his hands together in repetitive, self-soothing motions. ‘I’m not…I don’t have an eating disorder,’ he firmly replied.”Bruce doesn’t eat very much. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, but every bite makes him gag, no matter how hungry he is. He's just always been like that, and doesn't really question it. Tony’s worried this may be a symptom of a more serious problem.





	

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: eating disorders and self-harm (particularly, self-harm in the form of self-inflicted hunger). Brief mention of past child-abuse.
> 
> Lots of angst, lots of comfort. I personally struggle with not eating as a form of self-harm. Because I’ve had clinical depression and generalized anxiety since childhood, it took me over a decade to realize my gag-reflex problem was psychosomatic, and I wasn’t eating in order to punish myself. Anyway, I thought it might be possible that Bruce could experience this issue, as well. I also have a guy-friend who struggles with similar issues, and it got me thinking about how hard it is for men to identify an eating disorder, since it's usually viewed as a gendered illness.
> 
> Had to throw in a Greek myth or two because I’m a pretentious fuck that didn’t get to reference a poem, this time.

Bruce was a man. A grown man of forty-something. He’d honestly lost count a few years ago and didn’t feel like doing the math right now. The point was, he was a grown ass man who could take care of himself…kind of. For the most part. Depression was a bitch, but he was high functioning. He could work through the panic, ignore the despair, and keep moving because dammit if he was going to let the world leave him behind while it moved forward and he was stuck in his own head.

He thought he was pretty damn good at hiding when he was low. Hell, he was at least a little low most every day. It was just how he was, and no one seemed to question it. Even Betty let him work through his demons in peace. She never pushed too much, never addressed the problem directly. She instead conveyed that she was there for him through body language that was often lost on Bruce in his staticky, cotton-headed state. He always processed it later, the small tilt of her head, her eyes opening in unoffending question, or her side pressed close (but never touching) and her arm spread across the back of the couch. Betty was careful to be inviting but not demanding.

He never took advantage of that physical comfort, mostly because he never realized until after the fact that it was being offered. He appreciated Betty’s attempts at consoling him, he truly did. It touched him deeply, and even now he wasn’t sure he was worthy of such caring. But it hadn’t been what he’d needed. He needed someone to shove a metaphorical mirror in front of his face. Someone to point out how bad he was spiraling out, someone who would gently grab him by the shoulders and force him to experience grounding, human contact.

He’d never had anyone like that until Tony.

Brilliant, passionate, larger than life Tony, who also had his own demons. Tony could smell despair a mile away, because he was always running from it. While Tony ran, Bruce wore it like an annoying wool sweater that forced him to acknowledge its presence, but could be ignored if he tried hard enough. Tony had an unbridled zest for life that kept him running, while Bruce…Bruce was afraid. He was afraid of life with his despair. He was afraid of life without it. And wasn’t that pitiful? Not many people understood it. He didn’t really understand it, himself. If he had to guess, he’d say he was afraid to be happy because he didn’t believe it could last. His life could be defined as jumping from one burning wreckage to another, and he found himself clutching the stake in the middle of the pyre more often than not. He wore despair like a second skin as some sort of sick compromise, because maybe, if he carried out a little bit of his dues each day, they wouldn’t suddenly become too much to bear and flatten him under their unexpected weight.

Bruce had always been like this. It made it hard, sometimes, to understand what was a quirk and what was a symptom. For example, he’d never been able to go to bed at a decent time. Studies showed that the behavior could be part of his depression, but they also showed it could be caused by an overactive, creative mind.

He’d never really given any thought to his eating habits until Tony Stark started not-so-subtly adding food onto his plate. And by Tony Stark standards, not subtle meant doing so obviously while loudly proclaiming that Bruce needed to eat more, that he was as skinny as when he’d been living in India, or that if he didn’t bulk up a little it was eventually going to start affecting the Hulk, and then Tony would be forced to un-ironically nickname him “String Bean”.

Bruce always smiled good-naturedly when Tony tried to coerce him into eating more. Tonight, he responded the same way he always did. “Thanks Tony, but I’m really not hungry.”

And Tony gave him that look of poorly concealed worry he always sported when Bruce declined to finish his plate, let alone take more food. Of course, he smirked instead of making a scene in front of the others. “Whatever you say, Banner. But I’m not sure who you’re trying to maintain that bikini-ready body for. Should I be jealous?”

“How else am I supposed to keep being a trophy husband?” Bruce deadpanned, playing off Sam’s running joke that he and Tony were practically married. Ha, Sam wouldn’t believe how close that was to the actual truth.

Tony’s responding grin did nothing to hide the worry still in his eyes. “You don’t have to stay trim for me, you know. I don’t mind a man with a little meat on his bones.”

Bruce just kept that smile up, though his heart was falling into the pit of his stomach. Truth was, he was still kind of hungry. If he could keep eating he would, but each bite tonight had triggered his gag-reflex. Unfortunately, this was a pretty normal occurrence. It wasn’t that he would vomit if he kept eating. If he could keep the Hulk at bay, he damn sure could fight off his own gag-reflex. However, once he felt like he’d eaten enough to at least tied him over until breakfast, he usually tired of fighting the reflex and stopped eating. He tried to pick his battles when it came to his body, these days.

He knew he was scrawny. He didn’t think it was normal for a man his age to be able to count most of their ribs the way he could. It wasn’t as if he lacked muscle mass, though. He sparred with the team on good days that weren’t totally consumed by research (and those were admittedly few). He meditated and went through his yoga routine in the afternoon at Tony’s behest, because the other man knew how much it helped center him.

Tony could be observant when he wanted to be, and when he wasn’t dying or dealing with his own demons. Honestly, Bruce loved Rhodey and Pepper and appreciated how much they cared about Tony, but he could get irrationally upset at how frustrated those two had been with Tony when he’d needed them most. Then again, Bruce also couldn’t really fault them. They’d had no idea Tony had been dying, because the man had kept it from them.

Bruce and Tony didn’t keep when they were struggling a secret from one another. It would have been pointless, they spent too much time together, and so they could see through each other’s masks. Bruce was guilty of not telling Tony unless the man asked him directly. And even then he was loathe to go into any sort of detail. Tony never said anything at all when he was struggling. He let his actions speak for him, and Bruce always knew what they meant. He’d pick up on the dark circles under Tony’s eyes, the increase (or sometimes decrease, depending on the demon) in casual touches, the way his hand would rest both absently and desperately over the scar tissue in the center of his chest. Bruce would always ask if he wanted to talk about it. Tony would always decline. Bruce would then pull him into a fierce embrace, and Tony never declined that, even if he’d been physically distant up until that point.

And Tony…Tony could tell when to ask about Bruce’s mental state by the way the physicist’s eyes scrunched against the florescent lights of the lab, how his shoulders curved in and his head drooped more than normal, when he was terrified of downtime and made sure he was never without a book or a phone or music just to keep himself from shaking right out of his own skin. The worst days were when Bruce felt like he was floating right above his own body, and it took twice the amount of time to process the speeding, chaotic world around him. It was then that the panic would settle in because he was being left behind while the world spun on.

Tony always took a more direct approach than Bruce did. Which was why Bruce wasn’t surprised that after dinner, Tony finally voiced the concern he’d been hiding in front of the team for the last few weeks. They’d barely made it out of the elevator and onto Bruce’s floor before Tony grabbed Bruce’s hand and led them to the couch.

As soon as they sat down, Tony dove right in. “I’m worried that you have an eating disorder,” he stated matter-of-factly and without any hesitation lingering about his countenance.

Bruce blinked, dumbfounded, before that shock was quickly overtaken by confusion and hurt. He gently extracted his hand from Tony’s grip so he could massage his hands together in repetitive, self-soothing motions. “I’m not…I don’t have an eating disorder,” he firmly replied.

“Okay. So then why aren’t you eating? Is it a symptom? Loss of appetite? That’s a common one. I thought you just weren’t comfortable here yet, and it was nerves, but it’s been months since you moved in permanently, and we’ve been together for most of that time. It’s pretty obvious to me that you’ve nestled in, here.”

Bruce sighed. He appreciated that Tony wasn’t trying to defend his theory and instead was coming up with alternatives, but he really wanted to drop the topic all together. Tony wasn’t showing any sign of discomfort, but he was rambling a bit. He tended to do that when he was concerned or nervous.

“I honestly don’t know. I’ve always been like this.”

“Well, I know for a fact you don’t have a slow metabolism. In fact, it’s preternaturally fast, like Rogers’s. So depression. Sounds like that’s most probable. Is it physical? Or do you have it in your head that not eating is some kind of punishment? That would technically be an eating disorder.” Tony’s expression grew fearful for the first time during the conversation. “Are you trying to starve yourself to death?”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, his heart dropping into his stomach again, and his shoulders hunching protectively around himself. “Tony, please.”

“No, Bruce. I’m worried about you. I let it go on for this long because, like I said, I thought it was caused by a lot of recent, big changes in your life and the resulting nerves.” Now it was Tony’s turn to shift uncomfortably, though it resulted in him manspreading with an elbow on each thigh and his hands clasped together. He rested his chin against his hands. While Bruce’s body tried to make itself smaller when he was uncomfortable, Tony’s tried to take up more space. It was an interesting juxtaposition, and something Bruce had observed early on in their relationship.

“Are you not…” Bruce trailed off, his tongue darting out to wet his dry, cracked lips. “I know I’m underweight. I’ve been a little underweight for as long as I can remember. I know a lot of people don’t find that attractive—”

“Okay, no,” Tony interrupted. “Don’t you dare think for a second I was insinuating I’m not attracted to you. Do you know how sexy you are? With your curls, and your brain…you have the most gorgeous brain. You’re so damned smart, a genius. And you’re humble about it, too. You don’t flaunt your intelligence unless the situation warrants it. I don’t understand that, but I can respect it.” Tony unclasped his hands and leaned forward to rest one on the plane of Bruce’s cheek, his thumb gently tracing the bone there.

Bruce felt like he’d taken a punch to the gut, and all of his breath had left him.

“You’ve got great zygomatic bones, you know that? And those lips?” His lowered his hand slightly, trailing his fingertips so that they left sparks of electricity in their wake. He let his thumb swipe over Bruce’s lower lip. “Supple. You have supple lips. Never used that word to describe a man, until I met you. And that’s a compliment, take it as one. Christ, Banner, you know you have a six pack?”

This was too much. Bruce was the fucking _Hulk._ He wasn’t something precious or beautiful. He wasn’t something that deserved to be romanticized like this. He parted his lips to protest, despite Tony’s thumb still lingering on the bottom one.

“No, be quiet. You did this to yourself. You doubted my attraction to you, so now you have to hear about how infatuated I am with every inch of you until I know you’ll never doubt me again.”

Bruce raised a disbelieving eyebrow, even as he felt… shit were those tears in his eyes? This was pathetic. He was a grown-ass man.

“Where was I? Right, six pack. You have a six pack. It’s not crazy defined like Cap’s, but it’s there, and it’s deliciously sexy, but also worries me, and if you were to lose it from eating more, it might actually make me feel better. Since we’re on the topic of sexy, you’ve got that tight little ass and crazy broad shoulders. Oh, and you have kind of knobby knees that I think are adorable.

You’ve got this beautifully sharp wit and dry sense of humor. You make me laugh, and you speak my language, and God, you don’t do it often, but I love it when I get to hear your laugh. It’s throaty and sexy, and honestly I can’t get enough of it.”

Tony let his hand finally fall away from Bruce’s face, only to clasp the man’s hands in his own. Bruce felt like he was choking.

“Tony,” he whispered around the ball of emotions in his throat that he really didn’t want to analyze. Tony wasn’t looking him in the eye anymore, though. His gaze was focused on their intertwined hands.

“Speaking of can’t get enough of it, you help me in the workshop. You’re thoughtful. You let me teach you about the suits, and then you went and taught yourself enough engineering to actually be able to help me. At first I thought maybe you were just really into the suits, but now I know better.  By the way, do you know how hot you look elbows deep into my tech, with oil and grease all over you? Talk about primal. And you like the opportunity to work with your hands, I can tell.

Bruce, your hands? I could write a fucking sonnet about your hands. They're tanned and squared and strong, and I love when they bruise my shoulders or my hips during sex.” Tony kept Bruce’s hand firmly in one of his own, while the other released it. He caressed the column of Bruce’s neck with the back of his knuckles, his gaze following his own hand.

“Tony,” Bruce said, a little louder this time. His voice was rough, and he sounded as wrecked and shaky as he was feeling. He was certain he was a few moments away from hyperventilating. The only reason he hadn’t started to yet was thanks to years of breathing exercises.

“You care so fucking much about people,” Tony continued, and Bruce wasn’t sure if he’d heard him speak or not. “You help people wherever you go, and that’s breathtaking considering the shitty lot in life you’ve been dealt. Oh, and did I mention you have got the craziest chest hair. And I mean that in a good way. I’ve always had a things for hairier guys.” He let his free hand drop further so that it rested directly over Bruce’s heart. “I haven’t mentioned your gorgeous eyes yet.” Tony’s gaze flicked back up to Bruce’s face for the first time in what felt like hours.

What Tony saw made his gaze change from that tender, loving stare to one of confused concern. That was just as well. A look like that had absolutely no business being directed at Bruce. It wasn’t that Tony couldn’t be tender, but the man normally saved that for when they were having sex, and Bruce could somehow explain it away as Tony living up to the “playboy” part of his title; Tony was just being extra attentive, because, well, the man was famously good at sex. But this, this open love of a shell of a body that encased a shell of a man was nonsensical.

Tony slowly, gently, extracted his hand. “Bruce?”

Bruce crumpled. He hunched over, hiding as much of himself as possible from Tony. He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to hold himself still against the shivers that wracked his pitiful form. His body shook and shook, like it was trying to vibrate fast enough to phase from existence. There were still tears in his eyes, he knew, but they refused to fall. His body had forgotten how to cry long ago. Every once in a while it would try, and this was the result.

“Do you want to be touched?” Tony asked, his voice carefully gentle.

Bruce tried to respond, but only managed a hiccupping gasp. He didn’t know what the hell he wanted. Part of him wanted Tony to comfort him, and yet he also wanted to disappear completely.

Tony pulled Bruce’s unresponsive form to himself so that the man’s head was resting against his chest. He rubbed a soothing hand up and down Bruce’s back, and thankfully remained quiet. Without Tony’s ridiculous praises, Bruce was able to get himself under control rather quickly. He focused on his breathing, evening it back out to a normal pace, and with that, the shaking stopped. He blinked against the tears in his eyes. They dissipated without ever falling, though they left behind a stinging sensation.

“Was it something specific I said?” Tony asked, sensing Bruce was on more even ground, now.

Bruce just shook his head, not trusting himself to speak, just yet. Honestly, this whole ordeal was embarrassing. He wanted to go to bed and forget it ever happened.

“So it was just the act of complimenting you,” Tony mused. His tone was both concerned and curious, but completely devoid of judgement.

“Yes,” Bruce confirmed.

“It’s punishment, isn’t it? Not eating, I mean. You hate yourself still, and you’ve somehow tied that to your physical body, too.”

Bruce winced. Not at the words, but the tone in which they were said. Tony sounded so, so goddamn sad. Truth be told, Bruce tried not to think about his mental illness. If he thought about _why_ he was like this, he’d spiral so quickly, he wasn’t sure even Tony would be able to help put him back together.

“I don’t know. Maybe…Probably,” he amended. Because even though he didn’t like to think about it on his own, Bruce could feel Tony’s words faintly ring true with some deeply repressed part of himself. He didn’t eat enough because he’d decided at some point that hunger was a good way to punish himself. And now he was carrying on with that pattern of behavior subconsciously. It made sense. His body never did what he told it to, even before the Hulk's presence constantly threatened to take Bruce's autonomy completely away. It had started in childhood, being unable to stop crying when he was a kid and earning himself more abuse at the hands of his father. Wincing once, Bruce pushed those thoughts from his mind. He forced himself to relax against Tony’s chest, one of his hands coming to rest over the scarred area that used to contain the reactor.

Tony puffed up his cheeks and exhaled loudly through his mouth. “I want to be able to compliment you. I want you to believe me when I tell you those things.”

Bruce tensed, swallowing hard. He should be able to give Tony that much. The man was hardly asking for anything. Shit, he was asking to be able to pay compliments to _Bruce_. And Tony had given him everything.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Tony reassured, having felt Bruce tense up. “I know it might take time, and that’s fine. It’s not your fault, Bruce. It’s just something we’ll work on. I probably won’t bear my soul, next time. Maybe start with something small about your eyes, since I didn’t get to them during my monologue. I just want you to take care of your body and your mind.” Tony’s hand moved to drag across Bruce’s scalp, tousling the man’s curls. “Don’t punish yourself, Bruce. You’ve been punished enough by life, at this point.”

Bruce snickered. It wasn’t one of the laughs Tony had unfairly described so beautifully. It was a dry, self-deprecating sound. “I have a home, friends, you. I think it’s time now more than ever for self-punishment.”

Tony was intensely quiet. Bruce’s statement hung in the air, obtrusive and ugly. Eventually, Tony shifted, and Bruce could feel himself being repositioned so that he was still in Tony’s arms, but was now face-to-face with the man.

“You say you have everything, but I know you, Bruce,” Tony said in a fierce tone. “I know you. You still get low. You still struggle. Having what you want at your fingertips but not being able to claim it or enjoy it because you’re stuck in your own head is its own kind of hell. There’s a reason Tantalus’s punishment is so disturbing.”

Tony waited for Bruce to respond, but he only stared uncertainly into Tony’s eyes. When it was clear Tony wasn’t going to carry the entire conversation himself, Bruce quietly muttered, “I’m not sure if I can get myself out of this particular hell.”

“In case you didn’t catch the memo earlier, I love you,” Tony confessed in an equally hushed voice. “I’m not great at saying those specific words, but I do. Maybe it’s too soon to admit that, maybe it’ll scare you off, but I think you need to know that I’m crazy about you. I’ll help you out of the pit, even if I have to play a godawful lyre for the king of hell himself to convince him to let you go.”

Something wet was on Bruce’s cheek. It took him a moment to realize he was finally, finally crying, with Tony’s strong arms wrapped protectively around him, and Bruce’s head resting on the man’s shoulder. Bruce wasn’t shaking or breathing too hard or too fast. He was silent but for the occasional sniffle as he let himself be held and finally remembered how to cry.

When he was finished, he moved away from Tony’s shoulder. The engineer gave him a soft smile, which Bruce promptly captured with his own lips in a quick, chaste kiss. “I’m not so good at saying it either. But I do. I love you. As much as I can love anyone.”

“You can love as much as anyone else,” Tony assured him.

Bruce gave a small, unsure smile in return. “Do you want…Maybe ice cream? And Netflix? I hear they made a new season of _Mystery Science Theater 3000_.”

Tony nodded, an air of exhaustion finally descending upon him in the wake of that emotionally intense situation. “That sounds perfect. Especially the ice cream part. Tell me you have rocky-road?” he asked, standing up to go check the refrigerator.

“Unfortunately, that’s currently just a metaphor for my life and not something residing in my freezer,” Bruce replied as he stretched out into a more comfortable position on the couch.

“Quick wit, I’m telling you,” Tony called from the kitchen.

Bruce squirmed a little, still reeling from the onslaught of compliments form earlier. Taking a deep breath, he tried to internalize the sentiment and not let it send him spinning once again. He turned his attention to the TV, which FRIDAY must have turned on. It looked like the AI had automatically queued up Netflix without having to be asked directly. Bruce began looking through the suggested titles.

Grinning, Tony returned with a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and two spoons. He set the tub on one side of Bruce, sitting down on the other and grabbed the blanket that had been folded over the top of the couch. He quickly draped it over the both of them, a content smile on his face as he laid his head against Bruce’s shoulder.

Having Tony nestled against him, a tub of his favorite type of comfort food to indulge in, and the new Tom Servo cracking jokes at every opportunity (which were many, because the movie was God awful), Bruce felt a peace settle over him he hadn’t felt in years. He was pretty sure that, given enough time, he could learn to quit punishing himself. Especially if Tony was there to help.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


End file.
